Our Song

I was supposed to be home talking things over with Rosie, her idea, not mine. 

I reminded her the band had a last-minute practice for the wedding reception on Saturday. We needed to learn two songs the bride requested at the last minute. Rosie sighed and said we’d talk when I got home. The stern look on her face told me she was serious.

The other three were already setup when I arrived for rehearsal. I lifted my guitar out of its case, plugged it in, strummed a few chords, and nodded. I was ready to go. 

We played a song we knew to get in the mood. We did this at the beginning of every practice. Still, I couldn’t shake the angst I felt about the conversation with my wife. She hadn’t said what she wanted to discuss, but I had a good idea. She told me often enough I was out of the house too much, and when I was there, I spent more time with the TV than her. She was lonely and felt abandoned.

She was right. I worked fifty hours most weeks and spent weekends providing music for a variety of events.

“Charlie, you with us?” Brian, the band’s leader and drummer said. 

I nodded. “Sorry, Rosie and I are . . .Never mind. I’m good,” I said, forcing a smile.

The first new song was “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” by Stevie Wonder. We all knew the song, but had never played it as a group. We picked it up with ease and moved on. I switched to the second song and found “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” by Simon and Garfunkel. I felt a tightness in my shoulders and the fingers of my left hand went numb. It was the song Rosie and I danced to at our wedding thirty-two years ago. 

Brian gave a count off, and the band began the intro. All of them except me. I stood, stiff, like a wax figurine at Madame Tussauds’. “Charlie, you sure you’re okay?” Brian asked.

I put the guitar in its case and waved as I walked toward the door. Perhaps it was time to have that talk with Rosie. “I’ll see you Saturday,” I said.

***

I smelled the popcorn before stepping into a short hallway leading to the living room on one side and dining room on the other. It was her comfort food, she told me. She ate it when she was upset, mostly with me.

Rosie sat on a worn sofa watching a comedy on the TV. She wasn’t laughing. “You’re home early,” she said, without looking my way. “Did they kick you out?”

“No, they didn’t kick me out,” I said, bile rising in my throat. She had that effect on my too often lately. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t have a clue.” I waited for her to munch on another handful of popcorn while attempting to keep my heart rate at a reasonable level.

“You want a clue?” She said, looking at me for the first time. “I’ll give you a clue.” She stood and marched over near where I stood, her face as red as a sunset on a hot summer evening. “How many times have you banged her?”

“What are you talking about?” I lost the battle to keep calm and stepped closer. “Banged who?”

“That new singer. Melody.”

“Her name is Melanie, and I’ve never touched her.”

“Lying won’t help you. Ever since she joined the band, you’ve been out later and later.”

“She had to learn our entire repertoire. You forgot her predecessor left with little notice when her husband was transferred to somewhere in New Mexico.” I took a deep breath and wished I had a beer, even though Rosie and I gave up drinking and smoking years ago. “Between work and practicing three nights a week, I’ve been too tired to have an affair with someone half my age.”

Rosie sat on the back of the couch, looked down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I guess that’s why you haven’t had much time for me either.”

“No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that.” I pulled her to a standing position and took her in my arms. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll be all yours.”

“All mine?” she asked.

“Well, mostly yours.” I smiled, and Rosie smiled back.

That weekend I told Brian I was leaving the band. I offered to play through the end of the month. He said it wasn’t necessary. He had a replacement ready to go. I looked him in the eyes and took a few deep breaths. If I weren’t a pacifist, I’d have shoved him into his drum kit, hoping for the worst.

I haven’t played the guitar since that night. I’m sure I will sometime. Rosie and I have patched things up an are enjoying our expanded time together. “Especially the banging,” Rosie says, while crunching on some leftover popcorn. It seems popcorn is even better than a cigarette after sex.

“No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry about that.” I pulled her to a standing position and took her in my arms. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll be all yours.”

“All mine?” she asked.

“Well, mostly yours.” I smiled, and Rosie smiled back.

That weekend I told Brian I was leaving the band. I offered to play through the end of the month. He said it wasn’t necessary. He had a replacement ready to go. I looked him in the eyes and took a few deep breaths. If I weren’t a pacifist, I’d have shoved him into his drum kit, hoping for the worst.

I haven’t played the guitar since that night. I’m sure I will sometime. Rosie and I have patched things up an are enjoying our expanded time together. “Especially the banging,” Rosie says, while crunching on some leftover popcorn. It seems popcorn is even better than a cigarette after sex.